


That's What You Get

by theprydonian_archivist



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Crack, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-03
Updated: 2011-02-03
Packaged: 2018-07-15 01:12:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7199408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theprydonian_archivist/pseuds/theprydonian_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Master's woken up in quite a predicament - in Vegas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That's What You Get

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Versaphile, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Prydonian](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Prydonian). Deciding that it needed to have a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact the e-mail address on [The Prydonian collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/theprydonian/profile).

Distressingly, the throbbing headache pulsing in time with the drums in his head wasn’t quite nauseating enough to allow him to forget the events of the night before. Indeed, his most embarrassing memories seemed the sharpest, clarified by the four-beat throbbing of what was no doubt a massively inflamed frontal lobe. He reached up and pressed his fingertips gingerly to his forehead, expecting to find his skin split wide open; it was somewhat disappointing to find nothing worse than the slight tackiness of dried sweat.

The Master gave a cautious little twist of his torso and discovered two things: first, that he was, indeed, laying flat on his back on what appeared to be a crusty hotel bed; and second, that moving any part of his anatomy near his digestive tract was a terrible idea. His stomach rolled and made a commendable attempt to escape his body, but sheer force of will kept him from making any more of a mess of the shitty hotel room.

His next realization was that he’d fallen asleep in his clothing, and that this, too, had been a terrible choice on his part. Red was usually a good color for him, but coupled with white hibiscus on what was undeniably a Hawaiian shirt, his fashion choice for the evening seemed inexcusable. 

And were those… cargo shorts? _Tan_ cargo shorts? 

He’d started out with a nice suit, hadn’t he? When had he changed into a human ape tourist’s wet dream? It must’ve been after his second skull mug’s worth of frozen margarita, the one the Doctor had dared him to drink.

And, oh Rassilon, that’d been just before his heavily intoxicated compatriot had lost the TARDIS key in the Treasure Island moat. He’d _told_ him not to fling it at the busty ladies performing in that awful stage show, but he had anyway, insisting that the blond in the itty-bitty striped bikini was his next Companion. Unfortunately, his aim had been a bit off, and the key had landed squarely at the center of the slightly foamy moat, somewhere between the giant plastic pirate ship and the none-too-convincing replica of a desert island. 

The Master groaned aloud and pulled the rumpled bedhseets up over his head, an action that he immediately regretted. They stank, and further, the movement had roused the equally hung-over Time Lord curled up next to him. 

He’d thought that Ten’s hair couldn’t get any more absurd, but a glance in his companion’s direction informed him otherwise. It looked like each follicle on his head was competing to point its attached hair in the most ridiculous direction it could muster, resulting in what looked like a cross between a hedgehog and a damp ostrich. 

At least he’d done better with his clothes – his suit and shirt both lay open over his scrawny chest, revealing the henna tattoo he’d unwisely had painted on sometime between the Key debacle and the Master’s spectacular failure at craps. He’d instructed the bemused artist to draw on a series of interconnected circles and spirals which was supposed to mean ‘infinite luck through time and space especially while gambling’ in Gallifreyan, but turned out to look more like ‘your mother has only one eyebrow’.

“Please, by the Eye, don’t wake up,” the Master said – or, at least, intended to say. What came out was more a string of pained mumbles. When the Doctor snorted and twitched beside him, crawling groggily up out of his drunken stupor, the Master made one last desperate attempt to get out of bed, but his blinding headache made him slow; before he could scramble out of the way, the Doctor had lurched onto his side and draped startlingly heavy limbs across his chest and legs. 

“Nnnooo, mum, the cookies – don’tletKoscheieatthemall,” he snuffled against the stucky-uppy bits of hair at the back of the Master’s head. “Only got twelve for m’self.”

The Master, head throbbing, stomach making another break for it, was uncomfortably reminded of the lyrics to a popular song he’d heard quite portentously on the TARDIS’s radio just two weeks ago:

‘That’s what you get for waking up in Vegas.’


End file.
